


keep your eyes closed (and your ear to the ground)

by freudiancascade



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, canon-typical Gerard Is A Total Badass Just Slightly Off-Screen, canon-typical Jon Is Such A Bloody Archivist, cw for the desolation and the buried, desolation!Gerard Keay, grave desecration (which i tagged but we all know it Be Like That Sometimes in these parts), they were roommates (oh my god they were roommates)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19302145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freudiancascade/pseuds/freudiancascade
Summary: Jon is no good at this work-horror-life balance, not yet. Gerry isn't much better, but at least he's practiced in the fine art of making sure the Powers That Be are fully aware that you don't give a single solitary shit about their plans.Or, rather, hewaspracticed in that. It’s all gone a bit sideways, these days.





	keep your eyes closed (and your ear to the ground)

**Author's Note:**

> There’s going to be a novel-length prequel for this fic, at some point. It’s already well underway. I've yelled about it a lot on various Discords. 
> 
> But to read this, all you need to know for context is that Gerry is 1) alive, 2) a literal hot commodity, and 3) living with Jon to more effectively throw monkey wrenches in whatever Eldritch plans are on the agenda this week.
> 
> Title from "Blank Maps," by Cold Specks.

* * *

The building is made of stone and so it is very difficult to set alight, but there is nothing on this earth that cannot be destroyed. It’s always just a matter of knowing where to set the fire and Gerard Keay was always good at that, even in his first life.

Now he’s exceptional at it.

And so, the columbarium burns.

Gerard stands at the edge of the cemetery, faces the dark-edged flames, and knows that nothing will ever grow _right_ on that patch of earth again. It is useless now, even for housing the dead; people will instinctively avoid it. It has been twice-cursed, first by the Buried and now the Desolation, and there are some injuries it is beyond the ability of the physical world to heal from. The searing heat of the blaze scorches the exposed skin of his face, makes his eyes water and his lungs constrict tight. There is a constant pit in Gerard Keay’s stomach these days, and it expands now in joyous satiation as his patron is nourished. The ashes of the cherished dead mingle with the meaningless remnants of brick and dust, and centuries of future industry are laid to ruin. He feels the endless spirals of time cast to waste alongside the bottomless pits of eternity turned pointless, and it feels like victory. Adrenaline courses through his veins and, he’s sure, a lovely hit of chemicals rush through his brain.

So that’s alright, then, getting a quick snack in. Saves him having to go find a payday lender’s office to set fire to later.

Jon shifts in his arms, roused by the relentless heat. There is earth caught in the Archivist’s hair and dirt caked to his face, made into rivulets of mud by sweat and blood. Closer examination shows he is wearing the same clothes he was in when he disappeared. The prim button-down and slacks are almost beyond recognition now, worn ragged and gray, looking as though they’ve been through a century instead of a week. His hands are bound behind his back, and there is a rough rag shoved into his mouth. Gerard almost cracks a grin at that; as though robbing an Archivist of his voice could render the Beholder helpless. Cute try, though. The tape recorder in Jon’s shirt pocket still crackles, and Gerard allows it to stay on because he knows it makes Jon feel better.

Gerry can roll with the supernatural punches like that.

Jon cracks an Eye open--there, something otherworldly peers out through him, a flicker of unearthliness so brief it would almost be possible for the untrained observer to miss--and then he blinks and his eyes open proper. His lungs heave, first in panic and then in a pure physical struggle for air, as his vision focuses on Gerard’s face.

“Easy, I’ve got you. It’s me, it’s Gerry. I’m taking out that gag, I know you’re freaking the hell out but don’t you dare bite me.”

Gerard shifts him gently even as he talks brisky, propping Jon up to free one of his own hands. Tattooed fingers dance around the knot against Jon’s cheek before deciding it’s faster to just carefully burn through the edge of the fabric enough to rip it free. It catches briefly on a tombstone when he tosses it aside, and then flutters away and into the wrought iron fence. Jon works his jaw, wincing, not looking at the bonfire. He still can’t stand on his own two legs, they’re trembling so badly, and that’s fine; Jon is light, all bones and skin, and Gerard has always been much stronger than he looks.

“You know, I used to have a life that didn’t revolve around babysitting Archivists. Or maybe the Archivists of yore were just better at not poking shit after being told to _leave it the hell alone_ ,” Gerard muses dryly.

Jon opens his mouth to respond and only ends up clearing dirt from his throat with a series of rattling coughs. He pulls in one deep breath and then another, steadying himself to the best of his ability before speaking. He’s clearly trying to sound dignified, even though he’s still shaking like a leaf and covered in that relentless muck. “You know full well she wasn’t. And you’ll never believe the statement I got--it was incredibly enlightening,” he adds, as though that’s any form of defense. “How long was I--?”

“A week.” Gerry sighs. “Been searching for you for a week.”

“Excellent,” Jon says hoarsely. He seems satisfied, like a week is a perfectly reasonable duration for a forced confinement by the avatar cult of the crushing earth. “I was afraid it’d been longer. This means we still have time to stop them.”

Gerard almost doesn’t even bother to roll his eyes. Gertrude had always been the same way, and Gerard is certain she would have been every bit as difficult--” _stop wiggling, damn it, or I’ll drop your ass right here and let you find your own way home_ ”--to carry back to the waiting car.

* * *

Gerard blasts the air conditioning; ambient temperature doesn't make much difference to him, but Jon relaxes a bit as the cool air brushes his face. The vehicle used to be owned by a pet grooming company, and the scents of wet dog and floral shampoo waft out of the ancient ducts to fill the van.

One perk to having such an old vehicle, though, is the fact that the sellers had been so glad to be rid of it they hadn’t been interested in doing any kind of background or credit checks with the purchase--Gerard’s situation on both fronts, admittedly, is even grimmer now than it had been before he died. It had been paid for in cash, the keys handed over in a plain manilla envelope, and that suited everybody involved just fine. Another plus was that the ride came with a cassette deck already installed. Gerard rummages with one hand in the console now, pulls out a tape from the emergency stockpile, and pops it into the player.

_Case 9940281--Zane Morley. Statement regarding an unusual matchbook inherited from his grandfather, given 18th of January 1992. Committed to tape 9th of November 1996. Gertrude Robinson recording...._

Jon hasn’t heard this one yet; neither has Gerard. Gertrude’s familiar voice always fills him with a bizarre mix of emotion, a heady cocktail of regret and loathing and...fine, affection. He shoves it into the tight mental box where such feelings usually reside, and looks to Jon instead.

The literal contents of the statement are irrelevant, as usual. The simple act of receiving something to nourish the Eye is enough to bring a measure of color back into the Archivist’s face, and as Gertrude continues talking Jon straightens in his seat. His limbs stop visibly trembling, and Gerard can see the wheels behind Jon’s eyes begin turning rapidly once more. It’s damn spooky, is what it is, seeing how stories always perk that man right back up.

At least the Archivist is back in the game again, though, and that’s as much a relief as anything these days is going to be. Would have been easy enough for him to be incapacitated by trauma for at least the next day or so, Gerard’s seen _that_ song and dance play out after rescuing people from various Entities too many times to count. But Jon--as he’s proven over and over again--is made much of sterner stuff than anybody would expect by looking at him.

So Gerard keeps driving, and allows the tape to run itself through.

“They all do want to talk,” Jon muses into the silence after the recording is finished, clicking off the tape deck with a dirt-creased thumb. “They say they don't, but there's always somebody who wants their--what did he call it? Moment of great triumph? To be witnessed properly. You just have to get deep in it, so they know you're serious. Go at it half-hearted and I doubt any of them would have ever let me walk away.”

“And in this case you had to get…?”

“Really deep, yes. _Extremely_ deep.” He shudders. “Look, Gerry, I am sorry. I'd told--”

“Don't you dare say Elias knew where you were this whole time. Your boss was worse than tits on a door about the entire fiasco, and you can't tell me you expected any different,” Gerard says, his eyes darting to catch Jon’s sly grin at the turn of phrase.

“Useless, then.” Jon sighs. “Apparently he doesn't even begin to feign concern until I've been missing for at least a month.”

“Fantastic, beat the clock with three whole weeks to spare. What’s the play now?” Gerard says, his fingertips drumming against the steering wheel and leaving little warps and dents in their path. “You learned something useful out of this mess, at least. What are we going to do with it?”

“I need to get back to the Archives. I’ve got a hunch, but it requires cross-referencing with--”

“No, wrong answer,” Gerry says, and Jon blinks at him. Gerard lifts one hand to flip down the visor above the passenger’s seat, allowing Jon to get a good look at his condition in the mirror. “First, we’re going back to the flat. You are going to shower and eat some human food and record yourself a tasty little statement to tide you over for a bit. Pick something nice and gory, treat yourself. Then, once you’re looking something adjacent to human again, we head to the Archives. I’ll kick your boss’s ass while you do your cross-referencing, and _then_ we stop the apocalypse.”

Jon’s nose wrinkles in immediate distaste as he sees his own dishevelled appearance for the first time, and he touches the side of his face lightly. “ _Oh dear_ _lord_.”

“I was a ghost for how long? And I’m still better at having a physical form than you are? Fuck’s _sake_ , Jonathan.”

“Your steering wheel is smoking,” Jon mutters in response, casting a dour glare sideways.

“No, it’s--” Gerry begins, and then looks down. “Aw, _shit_.”

* * *

They stumble into the flat together, Jon leaning heavily on Gerard for support up the stairs. Of all the days for the lift to be out, _honestly_.

As Jon limps towards the shower, Gerard drops a coin into the “accidental usage of Eldritch abilities” jar that sits on the shelf by the door, scowling at it. Between careless compulsions, emotional not-quite-fires, Jon's uncanny knack for crossword puzzles and trivia shows, Gerard's (admittedly quite horrible) new habit of shifting his face _too far_ upon grimacing, and now a melted steering wheel, it's already half full. When the money reaches the top they've decided they're going to take a vacation. Not a long one, of course. Neither of them has seen the coast in a very long time, so they're going to find a quiet beach and see if they can pretend the world isn't always just on the cusp of ending. And then they're going to try to sustain that pretense for more than an hour or two, and it will be as lovely a respite as they can possibly make it.

So, probably not all that lovely, then. Still, it's something to aim for, a bright spot on a horizon that has a habit of looking relentlessly grim. Jon is no good at this work-horror-life balance, not yet. Gerry isn't much better, but at least he's practiced in the fine art of making sure the Powers That Be are fully aware that you don't give a single solitary shit about their plans.

Or, rather, he _was_ practiced in that. It’s all gone a bit sideways, these days.

He hates, sometimes, how secure and confident he feels in his patron's protection. He grew up a punching bag from all sides, a feeble mostly-human swept up in navigating these extreme currents of godliness and arcana, refusing to be bound to any of them in particular and therefore happily making himself an enemy of all. Those days are past, and he did not choose any of this, but also he has the literal firepower now to do some proper punching back and it's _nice_. It's much better than carrying a lighter and hoping each book he tries to destroy isn't one of the ones that enjoys being burnt, anyways.

There's a yell followed quickly by a crash behind the closed bathroom door. Gerard cocks his head to the side and waits a moment before calling out a cautious, “Jon?”

“Fine, fine, I'm--Jesus Christ, you left hair dye in the shower again and I thought it looked like--”

“The dark spread of inky Corruption, invading our peaceful domicile?”

Jon huffs. “....Yes. That. Or possibly a spider.”

Gerard smirks, calling over his shoulder as he moves into the kitchen, “You know what my root situation is like, this isn't going to stop happening any time soon.”

“But you could at least wipe it up!”

“I was in a bit of a hurry, my Archivist had vanished _again_ and--”

“Oh, I see,” Jon interrupts, snapping. “Can't have the rescue party show up with bad hair, heaven forbid. Might get another statement where the speaker comments on your dye job, _and we can’t have that_!”

“See? You get it,” Gerry says, opening the fridge and then immediately closing it again. There’s some kind of irony in there, thirteen Entities of deep primal human fears and then one primarily built around the impossible dread of the slime that lurks inside the crisper drawer after you leave it unattended for a whole week. He decides it’s not going to get measurably worse if they continue ignoring it until tomorrow, and cracks the freezer instead. “You're just being difficult.”

* * *

"I don't get it--we’ve all been trying to figure it out. Why do you trust _Jon_ , of all people?"

Gerard gives the woman sitting cross-legged on the linoleum table a flat look, his hands going still over the coffee pot. “You know something I don’t?”

She leans forward, the book on her lap abandoned. The pin in her hijab shimmers, catching the fading afternoon sun with a flash like an eye winking at a private joke. Probably not even intentional, that. “You’re with the Desolation, yeah? We just don’t get it.”

Gerard’s alone for the moment.

Jon had bumped into Martin two steps into the building. After reassuring Martin that yes, he was fine, and no, not dead, the two of them had struck up a rather opaque conversation about statement numbers and scurried away together, Archivist and assistant vanishing into the disorganized maze of cassettes and papers and stacks of old books that passes for an “archive” without a backwards glance. Gerard is seeking only a cup of coffee in the tired-looking lunchroom nestled inside the Beholder’s stronghold now, nothing nefarious about that, and so there doesn’t seem to be any point in pretense.

"Because if I turn into the kind of problem that needs to be solved, I know he won't have the choice not to See it."

“He might beat you to that,” Basira counters automatically, and then bites her own lower lip for a long moment. Gerard stares her down, and she sighs and commits fully to what she said. “What’s the plan if that happens?””

Gerard shakes his head, slow. “We...have an understanding with each other.”

She blinks. “So that’s it, then? Hang out, pay the bills, bicker over laundry day, and wait for one of you to turn into a monster and have to be murdered by the other?”

The voice from the doorway is acid, “Not exactly.”

Basira jumps; Gerard grins without turning. “Cross-referencing go well?”

Jon pushes off from where he’s been silently standing, striding into the room with a collection of tapes rattling around in a wire basket at his hip. Martin, behind him, pulls a small filing cart of books and audio transcriptions into the room. Jon sets his share of the finds down on the table beside Basira with a clatter and then stands back, every bit the melodramatic Archivist as he announces, “Of course it did.”

“Atta boy.”

“Which means,” Jon continues wryly, “if nobody objects, we are going to get to the bottom of this mess and write ' _save the world again'_ a step or two above ‘ _tragic demise’_ on the agenda.”

* * *

When Gerard gets back to the flat that night, it’s dark and empty.

Seeing as Jon had taken the more direct route home (or, at least, the route that did not involve scoping out three different occult hangouts for new developments) and should have arrived more than an hour before him, this is alarming. For a long moment Gerry just stands in the hallway, debating.

Jonathan Sims is a grown-ass man and fully capable of making his own shit decisions; he’s been sowing the seeds of his own destruction since long before he and Gerard met. He’s the Archivist and risk comes with the territory. So what if the Buried didn’t finish him off, not this time? All that means is that the field is still open. “ _Poke things until something, eventually, pokes too hard right back_ ” is the closest thing Jon’s got to a job description, and he inherited it from an old woman who only lasted as long as she did because she was much, much better than him at playing the game. She was precise, she was calculating, she was ruthless, and she was a thousand other things that Jonathan has not yet become.

Because Jon’s also...well, he’s Jon.

Which means it isn't much of a question: Gerard is going to throw his overcoat back on and go stomping back out into the dark London rain to figure out which arcane ass he needs to shove his combat boots up this time. He's reaching for the coat, cursing every single one of the fourteen horrors that won’t allow them a single evening’s respite, when he hears the call from the balcony,

“I’m out here, Gerry.”

Gerard drops his coat in a heap in the hallway and follows the voice.

Jon’s left the sliding door open. He is barefoot and leaning against the balcony railing, his sweater pulled tight around him and his eyes hazy from exhaustion. The overhang shelters him from the worst of the rain, but the storm’s breeze still ruffles the Archivist’s hair.

“Was wondering where you’d fucked off to,” Gerard notes.

“Sorry. I just….needed some air.”

“Understandable.” Gerard shrugs. “Turn on a light or something next time, though. You’re not the only paranoid bastard living here--I’d started running bets on what else could have popped up and grabbed you.”

“Who was winning?”

“Hard to say. We haven’t heard from the freaky meat god in a while, it’d be just like that lot to pull some garbage now. Long shot, but I think it’d pay off.”

Jon rolls his eyes and then extends his hand with a cigarette in it, silently imploring. Gerard obligingly pinches heat into the tip without stepping over the threshold. The paper curls as it hits combustion point beneath Gerard’s fingertips, his nostrils flare at the thin thread of smoke as the tobacco catches, and then he draws his hand back down and properly joins Jon outside.

“I kept meaning to say thank you,” Jon says, staring out at the parking lot. “For finding me. I don’t know if I’d...well, I’m certain I wouldn’t have been able to dig my way to the surface alone.”

Gerry follows his gaze to the thick block of apartments across the street, squinting to see the hazy lights through the driving rain. “Have a little faith. I’m sure they’d have let you go eventually.”

“The point stands.”

“And you’re welcome. I _am_ glad you’re alright.” He snorts. “Trust me, fighting off a cult and razing one of their compounds to the ground is a whole lot easier than finding somebody else who’d let a technically-unemployed dead guy illegally sublet out of his flat.”

“The employment status might be the bigger issue than the death certificate, in this city,” Jon notes.

“Fucking London,” Gerry agrees, and leans into the railing beside him.

And that is all mostly true--Gerry certainly _is_ glad, and his _alive-or-not_ status remains the stuff of administrative nightmares. It’s just the _alright_ part that seems to be relative. There is still earth trapped beneath Jon’s fingernails, and the Archivist’s hand trembles a little as he takes a deep drag. That’s trauma residue right there, the way it clings to his thin frame in the exact same way as the cemetery dirt, and there’s nothing for it but time.

Time, Gerry hopes, that they’ll both have.

There’s worse things that can happen to a person than dying--Gerard would know. He _does_ know, and it keeps him up at night. As strong and as permanent and as grounding as the blistering inside his veins feels, he still remembers exactly how it felt to be nothing. To have no veins at all, let alone any warmth to fill them. His new god hasn’t taken that memory away from him yet, and he wonders sometimes in his quiet moments if it’s a blessing or a different kind of curse. See, they both hurt, only in different ways. He’s starting to think that what he’s doing here at all, running circles around ancient gods and trying frantically to duck each blow as it comes raining down upon his head, is pointless. Maybe it always was.

Maybe that’s why the Desolation claimed him, after all. The punchline to a cosmic joke.

Jon seems to sense his melancholy, offering him the cigarette; Gerry takes a drag of his own and then passes it right back.

All that bigger picture stuff doesn’t matter much, really. Just gotta take whatever lands on them and handle it. It’s all anybody could be expected to do.

And so Gerard Keay stands there with Jonathan Sims, sharing a smoke on the small balcony of their little flat, and listens to the rain drum relentlessly down on the roof above and silvery pavement below. They wait in quiet companionship for nothing in particular, passing the small roll of paper and tobacco and ash back and forth until it’s burnt itself out, and then they light up another one and share that, too.

Gerard feels the fire in his blood, and he feels his own heart beat, and he tries--above all else--just to breathe.

They are both alive, after all. For now, it’s exactly enough.


End file.
